


Oh, Let Me See Your Beauty When the Witnesses Are Gone

by LadyJanus



Series: Dance Me To The End Of Love [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e02 Battle at the Binary Stars, F/F, Fix-It, Philippa Georgiou doesn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanus/pseuds/LadyJanus
Summary: Almost a year after the Battle of the Binary Stars, Michael and Philippa reconnect …





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my words and a bit of plot. Star Trek: Discovery belongs to Gene Roddenberry's estate and heirs, CBS, Paramount Studios and whoever else owns bits and pieces of the Star Trek franchise.
> 
> Spoilers: To "Battle of the Binary Stars" and, since this is a bit of a fix-it, everything beyond that is definitely alternate universe! The title is from the song "Dance Me to the End of Love" by the incomparable Leonard Cohen.
> 
> Author's Note: Since I'm sick today, I decided to start posting this, instead of endlessly editing it trying to get the voices just right. I've been inspired by the great stories here! Enjoy!

Michael left the security office after informing Commander Landry of Captain Georgiou’s invitation to spend the evening in her quarters. And, while Philippa might have given her free rein to move about the ship, Landry neither liked nor trusted Michael, regardless of their captain’s trust in her.

 

She got the feeling that—like most people—to Ellen Landry, chief of security for the Federation starship _Discovery_ , Michael Burnham was a traitor, a criminal, a mutinous first officer who had assaulted Captain Philippa Georgiou … who had tried to take control of the starship _Shenzhou_ in order to start a _war_ with the Klingons … who had, indeed, started a war that had not only destroyed _Shenzhou_ , killed many of her crew and nearly cost Captain Georgiou her life, but had so far, had destroyed dozens of ships, and had already cost the Federation _thousands_ of lives.

 

So, if it were up to Landry, Michael Burnham would have been _shot_ after her court martial; not sent to prison because of Starfleet’s weak _‘no capital punishment’_ rules and a still wheelchair-bound Captain Philippa Georgiou’s plea for _mercy_ …

 

If it were up to Landry, Michael Burnham would have _suffocated to death_ in a cold, powerless prison transport, once space-borne microbes had drained the shuttle’s systems of all energy; not rescued by Captain Philippa Georgiou and conscripted into duty aboard the _USS Discovery_ after serving less than _one year_ of her life sentence for mutiny …

 

If it were up to Landry, Michael Burnham would have been _shackled_ to her work station when needed on duty … and shackled in the _brig_ when not needed; not allowed to again wear the beloved uniform she had _defiled_ and _betrayed_ , quarters with a comfortable _bed_ , replicator rations to use on frivolous items like _dresses_ … or given free rein to move about Starfleet’s most advanced ship by _Captain Philippa Georgiou!_

 

All this Michael thinks each time she meets Landry’s gaze … each time she meets the gaze of most crewmembers of the starship _Discovery_. So, she’d acquiesced to Landry’s _‘security restrictions’_ , including reporting all movements outside of her duty shift and adhering to a strict curfew—2200 hours sharp!

 

Michael felt distinctly nervous as she smoothed a wrinkle from her dark blue dress; Philippa had gifted it to her and had asked her steward, Yeoman M’Kiliss to deliver it to her, requesting that she wear it tonight. It complemented her dark skin and made her feel beautiful in a way she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

 

 _I love Philippa_.

 

She could admit that simple truth to herself now. But she also knew that a part of her feared that she would do something wrong—push too soon for everything she’d longed for … _ached_ for … dreamed about during all those long months in prison … and even before that—and ruin the fragile bond that was reforming between them since she had come on board _Discovery_ a month and a half ago. It all conspired to leave her feeling less than confident about herself and her abilities—a state she hated but felt every day now.

 

On _Shenzhou_ , Philippa’s advice had always been to just trust her instincts, and that wisdom had rarely steered Michael wrong— _except that last day before the war_. So, she needed to follow Philippa’s lead … trust that they would both know if they were ready to move beyond friendship.

 

As she rounded the corner, she ran into Cadet Sylvia Tilly, her arms loaded with PADDs, which spilled everywhere as she tried to avoid Michael and failed.

 

“I-I’m sorry, Michael,” her work partner said uncertainly as she knelt to collect the scattered PADDs; Michael crouched helped her gather them.

 

“That is quite all right, cadet,” she said kindly. “It was as much my fault as it was yours. I was not paying sufficient attention to where I was going.”

 

“Thank you,” Tilly said as they stood. “That’s a b-beautiful dress!” she blurted out, before breaking eye contact nervously, leaving Michael puzzled.

 

“Thank you; I believe it is textile pattern number 1472, if you wish to obtain one,” she explained, hoping to dispel some of the young woman’s nervousness.

 

“Thank you,” Tilly repeated, her eyes still downcast as Michael left, wondering about the girl’s sudden change in demeanour. In the past few days, Tilly had become withdrawn around her—timid and jumpy—unlike the bright, outgoing girl she had been when Michael had first come aboard.

 

Most likely, some _concerned_ crewmember had spoken to Tilly regarding the negative effects that associating with _The Mutineer_ , Michael Burnham, might have on a cadet’s budding career.

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

Michael let all thoughts of Cadet Tilly go as she stopped in front of Philippa’s door, and after taking a moment to compose herself, tapped the announcer. Philippa answered immediately, wearing a cream silk blouse, neatly tucked onto crisply pleated black slacks, smiling as she stood aside to let Michael enter. Bare toes with bright red polish peeked out beneath the hem of her slacks; in casual wear, Philippa looked even tinier than she usually did.

 

As the door closed, older woman drew her into her arms and went up on her toes to kiss her passionately, leaving a surprised Michael breathless, with a queasy sensation in her abdomen. But, it left no room for misinterpretation of her captain’s intentions or affections. Michael puffed out an audible breath in relief; she hadn’t been wrong in her belief that Philippa returned her feelings.

 

“Hello beautiful,” she said, pecking Michael on the lips again; soft piano music playing in the background added to the romantic atmosphere. “Hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place,” she said chuckling as she let Michael go.

 

Michael gave her captain a puzzled look as they moved into the living room. “I’ve thoroughly familiarised myself with the entire layout of _Discovery_ , Philippa, I would not get lost—”

 

Philippa’s laugh rang out, bright and sparkling, and she kissed her gently again. “It’s just—” she began, pulling Michael closer.

 

“A saying,” Michael finished dryly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Philippa dearly loved to tease, and Michael dearly loved to be teased by her.

 

“Is there any chance that you will run out of these _sayings_ anytime soon?” she asked lifting one eyebrow in amusement.

 

“I doubt it very much,” Philippa said as she tucked Michael’s arm into the crook of her elbow and gallantly escorted over to the couch. “I hope you’re in the mood to explore Betazoid cuisine tonight.”

 

“As I have never heard of Betazoids before, nor experienced their cuisine, I cannot say whether I would be in the mood or not. But I would not mind trying it. What are you serving?”

 

Philippa moved towards the dining table. “Tonight, we have casiri leaves in a white jaroa sauce, slivered migdrial fillets on a bed of nuusa grain and Rixxi saltgrass, crispy noakin root with uttaberry compote, sparkling ilisin leaf tea … and for dessert, Betazoid whipped chocolate in cloud pastry,” she said, moving dishes of food and setting them on the coffee table, before returning for a carafe, teacups and an ornate covered dish.

 

“Betazoids are a recently discovered species of beautiful and extremely powerful, humanoid telepaths, who are native to a pastoral, Earth-like world in the recently explored Veldonna Sector. Their society is traditionally matriarchal—they are bright, outgoing and _honest_ to the point of extreme rudeness,” she chuckled. “And last month, they applied for Federation membership.”

 

The information startled Michael, driving home how much she’d missed during the time she’d been in prison. As a xenoanthropologist, the discovery of a new species—and a humanoid one at that, looking to join the Federation—would have been the talk of all the academic and xenological societies.

 

 _Life has gone on without me;_ Philippa’s life _has gone on without me_.

 

“I take it that _‘Betazoid’_ is not their true species name, but a Human appellation that stuck,” she said barrelling past the painful realisation, but another struck with the force of a torpedo.

 

 _If the war ended tomorrow, and Starfleet decreed that I would have to return to prison to serve out my life sentence, Philippa would again have no choice but to go on without me, just as I would have to again learn to survive that dreadful existence without her. Is it right to begin a relationship with her under these circumstances? Is it right_ not _to begin one when it is_ she _who wishes it? And I wish for it so much_.

 

Serving Michael before serving herself, Philippa laughed, unaware of her love’s turbulent thoughts. “The 21st century astronomer who identified and catalogued that system, named it Beta Zeta. Then some _genius_ in the survey corps took one look at that blue bauble of a planet, not to mention all those gorgeous women, and declared it Beta Zeta _Earth!_ ”

 

 _“Seriously?”_ she asked in shock.

 

“Seriously,” Philippa chuckled. “And in very short order, that was abbreviated in the reports to BETA-ZE, and from there, _‘Betazed’_ was all but inevitable. But it turns out that the matriarchs could care less about what _‘silly, mentally immature aliens’_ call them or their world; they simply shrugged and apparently broadcasted _“whatever floats your boat”_ directly into the minds of the survey crew, while the ship was in _orbit_ —freaked them all right out, according to my sources.

 

“Anyway, the traditional _spoken_ name for their G-class primary is Veldonna, their world is Cyndriel and they are _Cynveld_ or the Children of Rixx—their Mother-Goddess, we think. So, per Starfleet cartography, the nearby red giant was reclassified Alpha Veldonna, while the yellow G-class star is Beta Veldonna. Therefore, their world is catalogued as Beta Veldonna 5 and the sector has been renamed from Beta Zeta to the Veldonna Sector. But I’m afraid there’s no getting away from _‘the beautiful Betazoids of Betazed’_ —they’ve even taken to introducing themselves as such.”

 

Michael was stunned speechless. “And they make chocolate?” she said at last, casting about for something to say, without delving into all those questions the xenoanthropologist in her wanted to positively bombard Philippa with.

 

Philippa laughed and playfully swatted Michael’s hand away as she reached for the covered dish. “ _That_ is dessert. And if I remember correctly, my love, dessert comes _after_ dinner.”

 

Michael’s heart stuttered in her chest at Philippa’s endearment, with bubbles of happiness fizzing up in her like champagne. However, she covered her happiness with a pout—which had often caused Philippa to capitulate good-humouredly back on _Shenzhou_ when they were together in private—although Michael would never admit to _pouting_.

 

“Ah, ah,” the older woman chuckled, waggling an admonishing forefinger. “Not this time, Michael—no pouting,” she said as they began to eat. “Dinner first.”

 

“You do know that I could probably get it with my superior reflexes, before you could take it away,” she said, eyeing the dish speculatively.

 

“Probably,” Philippa admitted with a grin. “But you won’t.”

 

“And how do you know that?”

 

“Because you won’t. You wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of showing how truly _curious_ you are.”

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

As they ate, they spoke of random things … the War … what was happening _‘back home’_ among the worlds of the Federation … the crew of this new ship and how they are adapting to the idea of the experimental prototype spore drive. And then Michael took a breath and brought up a subject that she probably should have discussed with Lieutenant Stamets and his engineering team first, but for the fact that no one trusts or even _speaks_ to her. Stamets barely tolerated her presence most days, and there were four messages in his inbox, sent within the last week, formally requesting a meeting. She doubted he’d even opened them.

 

_No one trusts me but Philippa._

 

She’d started off on the wrong foot with the chief engineer and never seemed to be able to right the relationship. They had clashed regarding using the alien Tardigrade creature as an organic navigational AI, necessitating Philippa having wade in to settle the matter; the Tardigrade was currently the only viable option for practical navigation of the trans-dimensional mycelial plane—which allowed them a near-instantaneous shortcut to distant points in space—if they were to use _Discovery_ to its full potential.

 

_And with this horrible war on, Starfleet needs all the edge it can get; so, until we figure out how the creature does this, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one._

 

“Philippa, may I have your permission to present an idea to you and the senior staff tomorrow?” she asked hesitantly, hating the loss of confidence it betrayed. Her captain laid her plate down on the coffee table and turned her full attention to her.

 

“What is it, Michael?” Concern shaded Philippa’s voice and Michael hastened to allay her fears.

 

“It’s about the Klingon cloaks.” Philippa’s dark, almond-shaped eyes widened in surprise. “I have an idea regarding how to scan for their cloaked ships.”

 

“Go ahead,” she encouraged, obviously intrigued.

 

“I’ve been considering all the new technologies for the spore drive lately; it started with me attempting to understand how the Tardigrade navigates the mycelial plane and sort of went from there,” Michael continued, feeling a spark of excitement, not only for the subject matter, but for the fact that she won’t be condescended to or dismissed out of hand. “The scanners used to map the mycelial plane—I believe that they can serve a secondary purpose … to scan for disturbances in background tachyon and dekyon movements in the subspace flow-field right at the normal space and subspace interface.”

 

 _“Michael?”_ Philippa breathed, astonishment written large on her beautiful, chiseled features.

 

“Since I came on board _Discovery_ , I’ve been studying the data that Starfleet has gathered on the Klingon cloaks, and it seems to me that the cloaks are basically a cheat on subspace flow-fields, right at the interface, where they would naturally affect superluminal particles like tachyons and dekyons. And on the mycelial plane, I’ve noticed a strong correlation between the pattern of mycelial growth the Tardigrade uses during our jumps and the pattern of the superluminal particle trajectory through the subspace flow-fields at the interface, especially those left by subspace-phased quantum field particles like dekyons. I believe that is in part how it knows which portion of the mycelial plane corresponds with our reality—our plane of existence.

 

“As we already have the technology to scan the ever-shifting phased quantum fields of the mycelial plane during _Discovery’s_ jumps, it should be possible to use the _same_ scanners to scan for disturbances and interference that the cloaks should have on superluminal particle trajectory in the flow-fields at the space-subspace interface. It will only have the resolution to give a vaguely circumscribed blob—a _null-field_ that would describe where the cloak is affecting the flow-field—but it could be enough to give our ships a place to fire weapons. And since, from all the evidence we’ve collected so far, these ships can’t have their shields up while cloaked, even a near miss should be enough to damage and even destroy a ship.”

 

Philippa looked at her now with tears in her eyes. “ _My God, Michael_ ; oh my God!” she said hoarsely, with such overwhelming admiration, it embarrassed Michael. “Of course, you can present it! In fact, I need to contact the admiralty—” she said beginning to rise from the couch.

 

Michael felt the rise of panic in her gut and grabbed her hand. “It’s only a theory, Philippa—”

 

“It’s a damned sight more than _anyone_ has come up with in nearly a _year_ , Michael!” she retorted heatedly. “And you did it with little more than a _month_ to study the data!”

 

_“Please.”_

 

Philippa studied her for a long moment. “All right,” she agreed, sitting down again. “But you will present it to the engineering and science teams, and the senior officers _first_ thing tomorrow morning, love.”

 

Michael nodded, feeling her face heat up again at the endearment. “Understood,” she replied and turned her attention back to her food.

 

“And after the briefing, we will input your parameters and go hunting _Klingons_ ,” she said in a hard voice, “Collect enough _data_ so that not even the damned _brass warthogs_ back at Starfleet Command can have _any_ objection.”

 

“We don’t even know if it will work,” Michael said faintly, shocked at her captain’s denigration of the admiralty. Philippa might not have liked certain admirals over the years, but she’d never before disrespected them in front of Michael.

 

 _“It will work,”_ Philippa said with utter conviction. “That big, beautiful brain of yours thought it up, so it _will_ work, love.”

 

“Thank you,” Michael murmured, a bit overwhelmed by Philippa’s unwavering confidence in her abilities. It felt almost as if they were back on _Shenzhou_ again. “But we’ll have to be careful of any sensor ghosts _Discovery_ herself may leave behind from use of the spore drive, as our jumps do disturb the flow-field as well. The drive will need to be offline when we’re scanning for the Klingon ships.”

 

Philippa nodded and they resumed eating in silence for a few minutes more, just enjoying the music and each other’s company.

 

“So, how do you like Betazoid cuisine?” Philippa asked setting her half-eaten meal aside again and leaning back with her head propped up by one hand as she gazed into Michael’s eyes.

 

“It has interesting flavours,” Michael answered, considering the food critically. “I like the casiri leaves,” she said turning the remaining plump, succulent leaf over on her plate. “However, although not unpleasant, the jaroa sauce is not to my liking—it is too … acidic—”

 

“Ah, but that’s what enhances the flavour of the casiri leaves,” she explained. “Betazoids believe in contrasts—it’s a philosophy of balance, like light and dark; how can you understand what light is if you’ve never experienced the dark. It’s all about experiences; you can never know what something’s like except by experiencing it—well, within limits that is,” she chuckled.

 

“I see what you mean—you wouldn’t want to experience a warp core meltdown just to know what it feels like,” she said dryly as Philippa laughed heartily.

 

“Definitely not!”

 

“When do you know where the limit is, Philippa?”

 

Her love was thoughtful for a moment before answering her. “As always, you use your judgement, your instincts, how you feel depending on the situation,” she replied gently, caressing Michael’s cheek. “That is all you _can_ do; you can only depend on the information you have at that moment, and yes, your own emotions at that moment. Generally, if something feels wrong to you, you should consider the situation very carefully before proceeding. Sometimes, there’s not always time to do so, or despite your best intentions, the choice you make is not the ideal one; sometimes you go by your feelings and it doesn’t turn out the way you expected. You can’t stop _feeling_ because of that, you can only learn by experience. And you can’t always be second-guessing yourself; sometimes you just have to go for it.” Michael nodded as she considered Philippa’s words.

 

“Well how about some dessert now?” Philippa asked lightly, removing Michael’s plate from her trembling hands and placing it on the coffee table, before reaching for the covered dessert dish.

 

In that instant, Michael didn’t think, but allowed herself to only _feel_.

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

Philippa almost upset the dessert dish, letting it go with a clatter when Michael drew her into a kiss. Michael felt only soft lips beneath her own, and all the emotions the older woman had churned up inside her simply by her proximity.

 

A moment later, Philippa responded just as passionately, their lips crashing together with pressures that should have hurt; tongues sliding past each other in an intimate, erotic tango.

 

Even constrained by Philippa’s arms wrapping around her and pulling her closer, Michael felt completely free; her lover deserted her mouth to pepper kisses along her jawline and neck.

 

Someone moaned—a low, wild, _abandoned_ sound—and she realised it came from her own throat as Philippa cupped her right breast through her clothing, while kissing the sensitive hollow at the base of her neck. Gasping, she fumbled for and brought one of Philippa’s delicate hands to her own lips. Strangely detached as she tasted Philippa’s skin, immediately her mind began to catalogue it, comparing all the sensations coursing throughout her body; her fingertips tasted faintly of the jaroa sauce, which Michael liked better than what had been on her plate. A moment later as if in possession of a mind of their own, her fingers lifted her lover’s shirt free of her pants, and roamed the smooth, silken skin of her back; all thoughts of cataloguing Philippa’s taste, or her own feelings, fled.

 

Michael straddled Philippa’s lap, claiming her lips again as her lover pushed the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders. Suddenly, Philippa pulled her mouth away, her dark eyes stormy with desire as they panted heavily; foreheads coming together, they gazed deeply into each other’s soul.

 

“I don’t know if we should go on, Michael,” she said finally, liquid eyes brimming now as she stroked Michael’s hair. “Are you sure you are ready for what might happen tonight—to make love, then have to return to your quarters to spend the rest of the night alone?”

 

“I want this, Philippa; I want to know this—to experience this _love_ with you,” she whispered hoarsely as she felt the tears rolling down her cheeks; the weight in her chest made it difficult to breathe, much less speak. “I feel like I’ve wasted so much _time_ , and whether or not we make love tonight, I will return to my quarters _physically_ alone; if we make love, I’ll return with a part of you to hold onto. Can you hold onto a feeling, Philippa?” she asked desperately. “Is it possible to hold onto love?”

 

“Yes,” her lover replied, kissing her tenderly. Philippa’s movements were not frantic anymore, and she calmed Michael with simple caresses through her clothing, yet—in some way indefinable to Michael—it enhanced the sensuous, exquisite feelings that coursed through her.

 

She broke their kiss again and helped Michael to stand on unsteady legs, before leading her into the bedroom. Philippa resumed kissing her, leaving Michael feeling incredibly shy and exposed, then stepped back and slowly pushed her dress down over her torso and past her hips. Michael felt it caress her legs on its way to the floor and stepped out of it; Philippa reached around her to unfasten her black strapless bra and it too fell away with a whisper of sound. Her lover pulled her close again, kissing her tenderly, and her naked breasts, pressed against Philippa’s silk-clad chest, heightened the tingling in her skin, and the liquid sensation pooling in her lower abdomen and sex.

 

Philippa manoeuvred her to lay on the bed, and as she kicked off her shoes, Michael was unsure what to do; her lover removed her own pants and sat on the edge of the bed still wearing her shirt and underwear. She ran her fingers lightly over Michael’s breasts, then brought her lips to the one on the right, and with gentle suction, drew the nipple into her mouth, tonguing it until the sensation made Michael squirm with breathless pleasure, before transferring her attention to the left breast.

 

As she began to kiss her way down Michael’s body, Michael realised that she’d done nothing to reciprocate and stimulate her lover’s pleasure. She started to rise, but Philippa gently pushed her back, holding her captive with nothing but light, feathery touches along the tops of Michael’s thighs.

 

“What about you, Philippa?” she asked hoarsely, her breath coming out in uneven gasps.

 

“Don’t worry, dearest,” she replied with a distinctly impish grin. “There’ll be time enough for me later and giving _you_ pleasure will give me a _great_ deal of pleasure.”

 

Not waiting for her to figure that one out, Philippa returned her attention to Michael’s abdomen seemingly fascinated with her navel. She nipped and kissed the puckered skin and Michael cried out softly at the exquisite feeling that simple action conveyed. Slowly, Philippa pulled Michael’s underwear off and the thought of herself completely naked before this woman produced another heady rush of pleasure. Her lover resumed kissing her abdomen until she came to her pubic area with its small, neat patch of hair.

 

The surprising jolt of sensation as Philippa’s tongue made contact with her clitoris, caused Michael to give another small, involuntary cry that evolved into a series of louder and equally inarticulate moans and cries of pleasure as her tongue swept through the folds of Michael’s sex.

 

Michael’s hands tangled in long silky tresses, as Philippa played her body like a flute, slender fingers slipping inside her body to touch her core, mouth and tongue lavishing sweet attention on her clitoris. Michael bucked and undulated as the waves of pleasure coursed through her and built to an exquisite pinnacle of sensations all at once that made her cry out even louder as she crashed over the precipice … flying off the edge of self …

 

Intellectually, she knew that this was an _orgasm_ ; yet, for all her intellectual knowledge, she knew that it went far beyond the simple clinical definition of a physiological and emotional response to physical stimulation of the genitals. Her foster-mother, Amanda, had always encouraged her to take care of her sexual health, _“since you’re rather averse to finding a partner to do it for you”_ she would quip; but Michael could never bring herself to this precipice—frustratingly, she would always back off for some reason, and she’d never wanted a partner. Until _Philippa_.

 

Again, an overwhelming sense of freedom rolled over her as all the sensations culminated in paroxysms of pleasure, causing her to arch her body off the bed with a loud wail. Brilliant starbursts exploded behind the lids of her tightly shut eyes as she _flew_. Then her mind fogged up as she plunged into a pool of love and warmth and contentment.

 

#


	5. Chapter 5

Michael didn’t know how long she floated in that warm, safe place, but as she gradually regained her faculties, she found herself curled into Philippa’s protective embrace.

 

“I never knew it could feel like that,” she whispered hoarsely, in awe of the experience and sensations; small aftershocks rippled from the epicentre of her sex. “It is like a moment of utter perfection.”

 

“I’ve always believed that is what making love was meant to be,” Philippa replied, dropping a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Life will never be perfect, Michael, but I believe that moments like these are meant to teach us about perfection.”

 

“I thought I would never _feel_ … this—I wanted to for so long, but I was so afraid to reach for you … too afraid to reach for _this_ , so I held myself apart, opted to focus all my energies on becoming the _perfect_ Starfleet officer,” she said softly. “I only admitted it to myself that day, when I realised that you, the crew … that _Shenzhou_ could _die_ … and then all I could think about was doing whatever it took to _save_ you.” Philippa gently wiped away the moisture on her cheeks; Michael hadn’t realised she was crying.

 

“Perfection is simply a matter of perspective,” Philippa whispered. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. We are only mortal, dear one; we cannot see everything … understand everything all at once, so we must gain understanding from different experiences in our lives and embrace our moments of utter perfection. But we must never stop reaching— _you_ taught me this. And please do _not_ apologise for being afraid to reach for _this_ ; you were not the only one who was afraid, Michael. You were certainly braver than me—I only admitted it to myself when I was dying, but I’d realised I loved you long before we were caught in the light of the binary stars. However, I thought that if I didn’t admit it … if I didn’t acknowledge these feelings, I could continue to be the _perfect_ Starfleet captain—and I am _sorry_ for that.”

 

Michael smiled and lifted her head from Philippa’s chest, unbuttoning the top buttons of her blouse and feathering her fingers across the soft, creamy mound clad in a delicate white lace-edged bra. Almost of their own accord, her fingers popped the bra’s front fastener and began to toy with one blush-rose nipple; she remembered that Philippa hadn’t experienced her _‘moment of perfection’_. Bringing her mouth close to the small, pebbled bud, she blew gently, before closing her lips around it.

 

 _“Michael!”_ Philippa gasped, and as a startled Michael looked up in concern, she drew her shirt closed again at the neck. She rolled away and sat up on the opposite edge of the bed, turning quickly, her face pale and vulnerable, before it was hidden by a curtain of silky dark brown hair.

 

A tide of panic rolled over Michael. _“I’m sorry!”_ she cried in bewilderment. “Did I _hurt_ you?”

 

“No! Oh, Michael, _no!_ ” Philippa gasped. “I-I thought I was ready for this. Please … _Please_ forgive a silly, old woman.”

 

“You’re not silly and you are _not_ old!” Michael protested fiercely, scrambling to sit next to her and pull her close.

 

Philippa chuckled, her head resting on Michael’s shoulder. “I am over twenty-three years older than you, Michael—that is nearly _twice_ your age.”

 

“No, it is not! It is only 1.77 times my age, and in twenty years, you will only be 1.46 times my age—and in _fifty_ years, you will merely be 1.28 times my age.” Philippa shook with silent laughter as Michael scoffed, “ _Pfftt!_ In one hundred years, our age difference will be _entirely_ negligible.”

 

“A hundred years, huh?” Philippa’s arms wound around Michael’s naked torso, holding on tightly.

 

“Or two hundred years, if I have to steal it from _Father Time_ himself!”

 

There was a smile now in Philippa’s voice. “Father Time? I didn’t think you would know that old Earth fairy tale.”

 

Michael felt her face heat with embarrassment, but this was Philippa … the one person she could reveal all these embarrassing little things to—especially now.

 

“Well, you have Amanda to thank for that,” she replied, smiling fondly at the thought of her foster mother. “And her never-ending stash of ancient movies, which I’m inclined to believe she keeps simply to drive Sarek mad—including _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ , _Frosty the Snowman_ and _Rudolph’s Shiny New Year_ ; Father Time features prominently in the last one, along with Baby New Year. Every year, she would block off the three weeks around Christmas and New Years by Earth’s calendar. Those celebrations were the only _Human_ customs that she insisted on observing, even when Sarek would not, and Spock and I grew up … thought ourselves too old and too sophisticated for such irrelevant and childish celebrations.”

 

Philippa burrowed even deeper into Michael’s embrace; holding her, Michael felt as if she was trying to hold something small and fragile … and incredibly _strong_ in its smallness and its fragility; a delicate hummingbird suspended in the moment between one wingbeat and the next.

 

“I am scarred, Michael,” Philippa spoke into that stillness between them. “Klingon blades are not forged to cut cleanly, but to rend and tear … to hack and splinter … to cause the maximum damage possible … to cause the maximum _pain_. T’Kuvma’s blade had a neuro-toxin—there is some nerve damage.”

 

“I know,” she replied softly; Philippa looked up at her in surprise, eyes wet and vulnerable. “I was there, and I _know_ Klingons, remember? I know _exactly_ what kind of brutality they are capable of in the service of their _honour_. _You_ have nothing to be ashamed of … nothing you need to be afraid to show me or tell me, Philippa.”

 

#


	6. Chapter 6

Michael laid back down, gently coaxing Philippa to lie beside her so they faced each other and pulling the thin sheet up to cover them. Meeting Philippa’s gaze again, she continued softly.

 

“And I have scars as well. Klingon raiders dropped the Doctari Alpha Research Outpost on me, and Vulcan logic extremists dropped the Vulcan Learning Centre on me; so, I have scars. They might be less visible than yours, but as Amanda once pointed out to Sarek; he had _‘to put a big-assed bandage, torn from his own damned_ katra _, on me to keep my body and soul together’_ after the Learning Centre attack. I was twelve and they were arguing about my wanting to immerse myself in the discipline of _Kolinahr_ —she didn’t feel it was healthy for me to learn to suppress or worse _purge_ my emotions. She felt that as a Human child, I needed to learn to _express_ my emotions more.”

 

“I guess Sarek won that battle,” Philippa mused with a small smile, the sight of which lifted some of the weight off Michael’s heart.

 

She chuckled softly. “As with most disagreements between them, Sarek did the logical thing and _compromised_ with _‘She Who is His Wife’_ , then made a _tactical_ withdrawal from the field of battle and _called_ it a win.”

 

Philippa laughed heartily. “But I know that you’ve practised _Kolinahr_ , and I know you meditate,” she said with noticeable confusion.

 

“I do practise it to a degree,” Michael replied with a small grin. “I just don’t _tell_ anyone to _what_ degree. As I said, they compromised. Amanda demanded he find me an appropriate teacher of _Kolinahr_ ; one who was not only _willing_ to work with me, but also able to provide proper counselling and guidance to this flawed Human _tween_ —as she often chose to call my pre-adolescent years. Sarek found me T’Pol.”

 

Philippa gaped at her in shock. “ _T’Pol_. As in _Ambassador_ T’Pol—as in _Jonathan Archer’s_ T’Pol?”

 

“I think that her husband, Commander Charles Tucker III, would have strenuously objected to you calling her _Jonathan Archer’s T’Pol_ , seeing that she is properly _Mrs. Tucker_ ,” Michael laughed.

 

“Commander Tucker was her husband? I didn’t know that.”

 

“It was rather an open secret on Vulcan.”

 

“Then that means her children—”

 

“Are first generation Vulcan/Human hybrids like Spock; that is rather _less_ well known, but again, not really a secret. As the Vulcan Ambassador to the Federation, she was one of Sarek’s mentors when he first became the ambassador to Earth. She was also the one to help him to truly understand the ramifications and the consequences when he first started to court Amanda.”

 

“Wow!” Philippa said, eyes sparkling and the terrible shame banished for the moment. “It must have been _amazing_ to know them.”

 

“Looking back now, it was,” Michael admitted nostalgically. “But, while I loved learning from T’Pol, I found the commander—or _Trip_ as he liked to be called—to be an annoying old man most of the time. Of course, I only realised much later that they were _‘tag-teaming’_ me, as Amanda laughingly put it when I confronted her. T’Pol would teach me for a couple of hours each day, and then Trip would invariably interrupt us for some reason or another. She’d call him an overgrown, hyperactive _115-year-old child_ ; he’d stick out his tongue at her and call her _‘Arwen’_ or _‘Elf’_ —”

 

Philippa burst out laughing and Michael chuckled.

 

“He’d call me _‘Kid’_ and drag me off to watch the _Hobbit_ , or the _Lord of the Rings_ , or the _Star Wars_ movies with him— _“Just look at ’em, Kid,”_ he’d say, _“and tell me this ain’t an entire planet of damned elves!”_ Or he’d take me fishing in their koi pond, only to complain, after spending hours in the hot sun, that he never caught one _blasted_ thing but _‘overgrown goldfish!’_

 

“But he taught me to ride a bicycle and bought me my first hoverboard—he’d kidnap me to _‘play hookey’_ from my lessons, to climb the few trees on their estate and to do so many other _fun_ things. Of course, I’d remind him that for Vulcans, _having fun_ was an irrelevant pursuit and a waste of time, and he’d remind me that for Humans, _not having fun_ was an illogical endangerment of my mental health and wellbeing. And all the time, there was T’Pol, all logic and Vulcan, telling him _“not to come crying to her when he fell and broke a hip with his undignified antics!”_ But again, it didn’t occur to me until much later that she really didn’t mind his _‘undignified antics’_ , and indeed, had aided and abetted him.”

 

#


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m so glad you had them, as well as Sarek and Amanda, to guide you,” Philippa said gently cupping Michael’s cheek and leaning in to kiss her.

 

“I am glad also,” she replied smiling. “But I think that T’Pol would have been disappointed in me that first day I met you, when I didn’t shake your hand.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because, while avoiding physical contact was Vulcan etiquette, accepting an offered contact was _Human_ etiquette, and within cultural norms of many other species. And T’Pol always stressed to me that making successful contact with other species, or even my _own_ species, can only be done with respect for the other party’s culture and meeting them on their own terms as much as possible; I think it’s part of what made her such an effective ambassador. I’ve always regretted not shaking your hand that day, but I’d still been so disappointed by the Vulcan Expeditionary Group’s rejection of my application, I closed down—I guess I was still trying to prove I could be _‘Vulcan’_ , if that makes any sense.”

 

“It makes a great deal of sense, love,” Philippa said gently, “and really, although I was a little disappointed, I took no offense at it. I think I was more bemused, and a little more than excited to meet you. From Sarek’s first communique, I was extremely intrigued by you. I’d insisted on being sent all your schoolwork; so, I read everything from your prize-winning work and dissertation on _‘Quantum Mapping of Omnicordial Intersects Through Subspace’_ , to your very first research essay on _‘Tcha’besheh: Social Behaviour, Art and Mathematical Reasoning of the Living Fossils Beneath the Sands’_ —”

 

Michael stared, open-mouthed with shock and embarrassment. “I-I wrote that essay when I was eleven years old!”

 

“And it was surprisingly insightful and erudite for an eleven-year-old, if a bit given to hyperbole, as your instructor observed,” she replied with a quiet chuckle.

 

_Beneath the sands of our world, is another entire world; the vast world of the Underliers. Tcha’besheh. Very little is known about these ‘living fossils of Vulcan’, as they are called by the scientific community, but what is known, from fossil evidence, is that they have not changed very much in the over three hundred million years they have existed under the sands of this world. And from recent observation—using new subspace-based and less intrusive ground-penetrating technology—a new vision of these fascinating, ancient creatures is beginning to emerge._

_They not only live, grow, procreate, and then die like most living organisms, but they raise, nurture and defend their offspring in a cooperative and highly altruistic fashion; engage in social intercourse and hierarchical communication with tantalising suggestions of abstract and lateral thinking; and produce art, sculpting from stone or etching into the walls of their caverns, not simply random marks or organic rudimentary forms, but complex designs, fractal patterns, and elaborate, progressively recursive structures that suggest a deep understanding of complex mathematical theory._

_So compelling are the recent observations, scientists T’Rol and Sovak, of the Vulcan Science Institute, have advanced the hypothesis that the Tcha’besheh are self-aware,_ sentient _beings. Having reviewed the evidence presented so far, I agree with this new hypothesis regarding these magnificent beings, and furthermore, believe that ample evidence exists that suggests this hypothesis should have been advanced at least two centuries ago, if not longer!_

 

Michael buried her face in her hands, mortified as Philippa’s melodious voice recited the introduction to her childish essay.

 

“I can’t believe Sarek would send such a ridiculous, irrelevant, childhood endeavour to you!”

 

“Actually, _Amanda_ did—she insisted on sending all those little irrelevant, childhood endeavours; Sarek sent all the relevant, _adult_ endeavours that the Vulcan Academy of Science and Starfleet considered important,” Philippa said chuckling.

 

“And you _memorised_ it?” she shouted, outrage strangling her vocal cords as she gaped at the laughing woman next to her.

 

“Of course, I did.”

 

_“Why?”_

 

The laughter evaporated and there was silence for a few moments.

 

“Because it _wasn’t_ ridiculous, Michael,” she said quietly now, eyes kind and loving. “Because more than all your later endeavours, more than all your very important work, including the work that won you the Vulcan Scientific Legion of Honour medal, that enthusiastic little ten-page essay—including _six pages_ of pictures and graphs—told me almost _everything_ I needed to know about that very poised, ostensibly emotionless, young woman who had introduced herself in that initial communique you sent to me. You’d introduced yourself, not as a _quantum physicist_ , as I’d expected someone who’d won such a prestigious award for such ground-breaking work, but as a _xenoanthropologist_ with a _degree_ in quantum physics.”

 

Michael’s heart swelled; she found herself filled with inordinate pleasure that Philippa had recognised the importance of this distinction. She was not sure even Sarek recognised it; it is likely that Amanda does, but perhaps not Sarek. For it is as important to her identity as _‘Human, raised Vulcan’_.

 

“And I feel privileged to have been given the opportunity to know that woman and watch her come into her own. I only wish I’d done a better job—”

 

“No,” Michael said firmly, bringing one small, pale hand to her lips. “No recriminations, Philippa; you are an exemplary mentor. I made a _choice_ that day—the only one I felt I _could_ make and still stay true to the person that Doctors Siobhan and Michael Burnham taught me to be … that Lady Amanda Grayson and Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan and my brother Spock taught me to be … that Ambassador T’Pol of Vulcan and Commander Charles Tucker III taught me to be … that _Captain Philippa Georgiou_ and the crew of the _Shenzhou_ taught me to be.

 

“Do I regret all the death and destruction my actions have contributed to? _Yes_ —every day. Do I regret my attack and betrayal of you? _Yes_ —so _very_ much. Would I change it if I could? _Yes_ —in a heartbeat! Do I regret that it has all led me to this moment? To _you_ —here? Now? _No_ —I cannot, and I will _not_.”

 

#


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and one more before I turn in for the night!

Michael felt Philippa’s arms tighten around her as they clung to each other; the older woman’s head tucked neatly beneath her chin as her smaller, slighter frame curled deeper into Michael’s embrace.

 

“I love you, Michael.” She said, breaking the still silence again.

 

“And I love _you_ , Philippa.”

 

Michael leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t a deep or passionate kiss, simply a perfect one, and she marvelled at the _rightness_ of it.

 

“I spoke to Admirals Terral and Cornwell, a few days after you boarded _Discovery_ ,” Philippa continued after another few moments of silence, changing position to lay her head against Michael’s shoulder. “I also spoke to Commodore Paris in Fleet Personnel, and formally informed them all that I intended to pursue a romantic relationship with you, if you would have me.” Michael smiled lovingly at her; there was no chance that she would not want to have this relationship with Philippa. “I could not bear to waste any more time—or to walk away from this second chance.”

 

“Believe me, I would not be able to bear it either,” Michael replied, pulling her closer. “Thank you for taking this chance on us.”

 

Philippa chuckled softly. “Not so much taking a chance, as allowing the love between us to fully blossom. Anyway, I also told Saru and Landry after I informed the admiralty.”

 

“That must have gone over well with your first officer,” she said, unable to keep that note of bitterness from her voice despite her happiness.

 

On board _Shenzhou_ , she and Saru had often competed for everything—from Philippa’s regard, to awards and promotions—with Michael often the victor. Indeed, the Admiralty had chosen to promote _her_ to first officer of _Shenzhou_ , despite Saru’s longer time in service, which had set them up as natural rivals. And with the exquisitely-honed _threat sense_ of his species, he saw her as a dangerous predator. And she had proven him right.

 

 _I am dangerous_.

 

“Actually, I think it provided his threat ganglia additional data with which to put you—and your actions on _Shenzhou_ —into better context for him,” Philippa replied softly, as if reading her thoughts. “A warrior defending her mate and her herd is rather different, to a prey species like the Kelpien, in comparison to a predator who attacks to secure resources or a superior position.”

 

Michael nodded, at a loss for something to say, but profoundly grateful to know that Saru no longer saw her as a dangerous predator, because she’d never seen him as an enemy. Perhaps now she might have the opportunity to build a better relationship with him.

 

“As for Landry,” she continued.

 

“Enhanced security measures,” Michael said ruefully.

 

_“Yes.”_

 

The anger inherent in that single word warmed Michael, but she understood Ellen Landry somewhat, and she could live with her security measures if they kept Philippa, her crew, and her ship, _safe_. And she could live with any restrictions if they allowed her to remain on _Discovery_ with Philippa.

 

“How did the flag officers take it?”

 

Philippa chuckled. “Terral had _reservations_ —”

 

“Well, he _is_ Vulcan; he’ll always have _reservations_. And Admiral Cornwell?”

 

“Oh, Katrina just laughed her head off and told me _‘it was_ _about damned time!’_ ” Philippa burbled a girlish giggle, which Michael found unbearably, adorably _cute_. “She was beginning to worry about my mental health; while Farzaneh—Commodore Paris—simply grumbled about all the extra paperwork, as she’d been hoping to spend the last three months of her rotation in Personnel scrupulously _avoiding_ paperwork as much as possible. Scuttlebutt is that she’s slated to command one of the newest deep space stations.”

 

Michael’s curiosity got the better of her. “You know Vice Admiral Cornwell and Commodore Paris well?”

 

Philippa laughed again. “I first met Kat at Starfleet Academy. She was a few years older and had already finished her medical training—psychiatry—but she was ambitious, wanted to eventually be an admiral, so she opted for command training as well. We met Farzaneh a couple of years later when we were both posted to the _USS Excalibur_. It was my cadet cruise; Kat was already a junior lieutenant, while Zana was a lieutenant senior grade. As I had the dubious honour of being the _baby_ of the crew, Lieutenant Paris took it upon herself to take me under her wing, in order to keep Kat from _‘thoroughly corrupting’_ me.

 

“It took a few months of me cracking skulls, and sending assorted security types to sickbay, for Zana to finally realise that despite my youth and apparent baby-faced innocence, Katrina was in far more danger from _me_ and my penchant for finding trouble, than I was from her tendency to pry into people’s lives—especially their sex lives. Zana was always apt to be a bit _puritanical_ , and definitely more circumspect, while Kat loved to tweak people’s sensibilities; more than that, she felt that regarding relationships … regarding sexual matters, you had to be clear and precise, so she rarely sugar-coated things or used euphemisms. But that’s the way Katrina has always been; blunt, almost to the point of tactlessness, when telling someone to get their act together, yet always caring … always with her eye on getting her patients, and her friends for that matter, where they wanted to go … where they _needed_ to go.”

 

“And did she get you where you needed to go?” Michael asked quietly, feeling a small spurt of jealousy for both these women who had known Philippa since her youth, and in different ways, had helped to mould the woman she was now.

 

“Oh, yes, my love,” she replied, cupping Michael’s cheek. “She got me here … to you.”

 

#


	9. Chapter 9

Moving out of Michael’s embrace, Philippa rose with fluid dancer’s grace to stand beside the bed. Nimble fingers made short work of the remaining buttons on her blouse, and she shrugged it off together with her bra. A jagged, puckered, red scar marred the otherwise smooth, toned skin, starting under her left breast and curving down towards the centreline just below her navel.

 

Through the blood rushing in her ears, Michael could still hear herself yelling at Saru to delay on transporting her off the Klingon ship in order to get to a wounded Philippa, whose life signs had faded below his transporter lock.

 

_And I give thanks each day that he’d listened to me … that I’d been able to rescue her, and that Philippa had survived T’Kuvma’s blade._

 

That scar was a blasphemy; the tragedy of that day indelibly carved into her flesh.

 

_And she is beautiful._

 

Michael smiled through the tears that spilled unbidden down her cheeks, awed by Philippa’s courage and her beauty. She left the bed, mesmerised by the sweet, vulnerable smile and pale, delicate hands fluttering, like skittish butterflies unsure of a safe place to land.

 

Michael stilled Philippa’s hands, lacing their fingers together at their sides and bringing her body to stand as close as possible. She bowed her head, so that their foreheads rested lightly against each other.

 

“You are beautiful,” she said simply, gazing into Philippa’s dark eyes swirling with golden flecks. “In _every_ way, you are beautiful, Philippa.”

 

Philippa’s smile widened and in it she saw acceptance at last.

 

“Take me to bed, Michael. Make love to me.”

 

Michael captured her love’s mouth in a tender kiss; her heart full to bursting as she gently gathered Philippa up into her arms without breaking the kiss. Her love gasped into her mouth at the unexpected action. Laying Philippa back onto the bed, Michael stood admiring her for a moment before crawling in as well.

 

Her hands tugged at the filmy silk underwear and Philippa lifted her hips, allowing her to remove that last barrier; then she lay waiting, her breathing ragged with anticipation as Michael saw her completely naked for the first time.

 

Again, Michael recognized that knowledge was not necessarily the same as understanding. With soft kisses, she traced the path from the scar, where it ended just below Philippa’s navel, down to the moist curls adorning her sex.

 

Philippa’s breath caught sharply as Michael inspected her most private part and trailed her tongue along its length; the taste was a bit strange, but not unpleasant. Philippa bucked against her mouth, moaning her name.

 

 _“Michael!”_ Her voice trailed off in a soft susurration of syllables, _“Cinta saya …”_

 

Her native Malay, Michael realised distantly as she sucked the small, erect bundle of nerves into her mouth, gently ravishing it with her tongue. Philippa bucked again beneath her, alternately thrusting and gyrating against her mouth, white-knuckled fingers twisting the sheets.

 

To her surprise, Michael felt the twinges of her own arousal again, embers smouldering deep within her core.

 

 _“Inside …”_ Philippa breathed, “Please love, I need you inside me.”

 

Michael released her with one last tender lick, then replaced her mouth with her fingers, first spreading the moisture around Philippa’s folds, making her mewl with impatience. Slowly, she inserted one finger into molten, liquid heat, then a second, as she rubbed Philippa’s clitoris with her thumb, making her love writhe and whimper with needy abandon.

 

“More!” she demanded, and Michael obliged her by adding a third finger, stroking deep into her love.

 

Glancing up at her face, Michael’s breath caught in her throat; Philippa, her hair dishevelled and her eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, looked like a goddess.

 

She moved up to capture her love’s lips in another bruising kiss as she continued to slide her fingers in and out of her love, while stimulating her clitoris with the heel of her hand. After a few moments, she increased the speed of her thrusts to meet Philippa’s increasingly frantic rhythm.

 

Philippa broke their kiss with an explosive gasp. “ _Yesss … there!_ Spirits Michael … right-right there, love—right _there_ …”

 

Michael focussed on the sensation of Philippa’s vaginal walls fluttering and tightening wetly about her as she stroked the ridged tissue beneath her fingertips, and she suddenly understood; she’d found Philippa’s _G-spot!_

 

She grinned in giddy delight, inordinately pleased with herself; all the diligent—albeit _embarrassed_ —reading and research she’d done on Human sexuality, for Amanda’s sex education lessons during her adolescence, had paid off. Philippa’s uninhibited expression of her pleasure, caused Michael’s own arousal to spontaneously ignite, with no other stimulation but watching her love coming undone.

 

Then Philippa’s thigh was suddenly pressed hard against her sex providing much-needed friction.

 

 _“Yes!”_ she said whined as the first waves of her own pleasure began to build in her core again.

 

Philippa’s hands squeezed her buttocks, guiding her into the rhythm of their dance. She hadn’t thought the sensations could get more intense than those she’d experienced during her first orgasm. Then they began to move in tandem, tremors coursing deep within her, and inexorably, both the rhythm and the sensations swelled to a crescendo, as she strove to match Philippa in their headlong flight over the edge of pleasure.

 

And as she strained to gather Philippa closer with her free arm around her love's shoulder, their foreheads came together and, for an instant and an eternity gazing into the unfathomable depths of love, she _knew_ she was not alone and would never be again.

 

#


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: March 11, 2018
> 
> It's a small thing, but in writing the sequel, I realized that I'd made a small mistake in the timeline; the Lorca story arc began about 6 months after the events in "The Battle at the Binary Stars", but I'd set my story at almost a year after that battle, so Christmas would have already passed. I don't know when Michael's birthday, but I decided to change Philippa's gift to Michael to an early Birthday present!
> 
> Cheers!

_“I don’t want to leave you.”_

 

Her voice trembled; despite her earlier conviction that she could hold on to love through their inevitable separation, Michael only felt loss right now. She wiped her eyes as Philippa spooned her from behind, gently kissing her neck and shoulder.

 

“And I don’t want you to leave me,” her lover replied softly, “but we knew that was always how this night was going to end.”

 

Michael rolled on her back and Philippa moved to drape herself catlike over her body, head resting on her shoulder. Michael gathered her lover to her, deliberately ignoring the ache in her heart to concentrate on the smooth thigh insinuating itself between her legs.

 

“I know; please forgive my weakness.”

 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Philippa replied, her voice hoarse with unshed tears. “Why do you think I cling so to you, my love? We should be getting dressed and returning you to your quarters, but all I can think about is being able to hold you for just one more minute … and just one more … and another …”

 

“But I must leave; it will be curfew soon,” Michael whispered; to raise her voice any louder was to risk breaking down and just bawling her head off. “But I don’t know how to face everything out there beyond the doors to this haven.”

 

“Bravely together, as we’ve always done; we will face _‘out there’_ bravely. _Together_.” Philippa pecked her lips gently, then pushed herself off Michael and climbed out of bed, unconcerned now about her nudity. Reaching one hand out, she beckoned, “Come, there is something I wish to give you.”

 

Michael grasped her hand and followed her out into the living room. Philippa let her go as she crossed to her desk and rummaged through a drawer. Retrieving a black, oblong box, she returned to Michael’s side and presented it to her.

 

“I learned of this on Betazed a couple of months ago, when we were asked to transport some Federation diplomats, and obtained one in the hopes that the admiralty would see fit to grant the request for your transfer to _Discovery_.” With unsteady hands, Michael opened the box to find a thin gold chain with a pendant made of a small, faceted gem that was the deepest black of space and seemed to call to Michael.

 

“What is it?” she asked, awe evident in her voice as she touched the pendant with trembling fingers. It _sang_ to her.

 

“A Soulstone—a rare gem found only on Betazed; it is able to store psychic impressions—”

 

“It-it’s you! Philippa, it’s _you!_ ”

 

“Yes,” she replied gently, setting the box down on the desk and removing the chain; the stone seemed to draw the light into its depths. “My friend, Lyrixxhandra Troi, Matriarch of the Fifth House, obtained it for me and helped me to impress it for you. I’d thought to give it to you in a couple of months on your birthday, but I think that tonight is the _perfect_ time.”

 

Unclasping the chain, she stepped close to Michael, who wound her arms around her waist as Philippa clasped the chain about her neck. As it made contact with Michael’s skin, it was like being submersed in the bright pool of strength and warmth and joy and _love_ that was _Philippa Georgiou_.

 

Michael was again overcome by her emotions, tears surging and threatening to overflow her barriers. “Oh Philippa, it’s so beautiful, but I have nothing to give you,” she whispered.

 

Philippa’s smile brightened as her gentle finger brushed away the single tear that rolled down Michael’s cheek. “You have already given me everything, Michael; you have given me your _love_ and _yourself_ , and it is enough. _You_ will always be _enough_.”

 

Michael nodded and kissed her desperately, acutely aware that time was growing short.

 

They didn’t speak as they quickly gathered up their clothing and dropped them into the refresher unit while they took a brief shower together. Michael found it sensuous to wash Philippa and to have her lover wash her, and she lamented that they didn’t have time to explore it further. Philippa had laughed merrily and promised that they would have plenty of time to explore the merits of bathing together on subsequent occasions.

 

After redressing and ensuring they were again presentable, Michael found herself facing the door with no little amount of trepidation. Philippa came to stand at her side, then taking her left hand, brought it to rest gently in the crook of her elbow.

 

“A gentlewoman always escorts her love home after a date,” she said with a smile, before moving them forward, across the threshold and into the corridor beyond.

 

#


	11. Chapter 11

The walk to Michael’s quarters was fairly uneventful, with only a few crewmembers stumbling in shock at seeing them in casual clothes, strolling through the corridors arm-in-arm—obviously on a date. They kept up a steady stream of small talk as they walked, ignoring the stares and whispers.

 

“Someone’s being subtle,” Philippa said drily as she looked down the corridor to the brig; Michael’s quarters were down as close to the brig as possible, without actually being in the brig.

 

Michael laughed as they entered. “Yes, _someone_ is. It’s all right, Philippa.”

 

“No, it is _not_ all right; it simply is what it is, but it is far from _all right_ ,” she replied hoarsely, almond eyes unbearably vulnerable. “I guess we should say goodnight now.”

 

She turned into Michael, starting to rise up on her toes to kiss her; the light panel near the door, flashed amber over her shoulder. _Curfew_. Harsh reality came crashing through the almost perfect bubble of their happiness; thirty minutes to curfew.

 

“Not here, captain,” Michael whispered; it took all her willpower to step back, denying Philippa that kiss.

 

Philippa regarded her in confusion, and no little amount of apprehension and fear. “Michael, what is it, my dear?”

 

A wave of shame washed over her; in the cocoon of this wonderful evening, she’d almost forgotten her circumstances, yet Philippa’s confusion indicated that perhaps she didn’t know the full extent of Landry’s _‘enhanced security measures’_.

 

Straightening her spine, she took a deep breath; she couldn’t allow anything to compromise Philippa publicly, as even the small intimacy of a kiss caught on camera could be fodder for a smear campaign by prurient _interested parties_ looking to rein in a captain who was far too independent for her own good. Clasping her hands behind her back, she sought refuge in Vulcan formality.

 

“These quarters are under surveillance, captain,” she said quietly.

 

“Yes, I know,” Philippa replied, confusion deepening.

 

“ _Inside_ as well as out, captain.”

 

Philippa stiffened perceptibly; taut, slender body seeming to vibrate with fury, and the horrified comprehension in her eyes quickly dissolving to acid rage.

 

“Do you mean to tell me that you are being forced to live with constant _violation_ of your privacy on board _my ship?_ ” she growled through clenched jaw.

 

Michael could bear it no longer and grasped her small, trembling fists, running her thumbs over Philippa’s pulse points in an effort to comfort her. “I am still a criminal—”

 

“And there are _rules_ —even for _criminals_ , Michael!” she snarled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Michael gazed forlornly at her. “Because you nearly _died_ for my mistake, Philippa, and because for almost a year, I thought I’d _never_ see you again,” she whispered, “or have a chance to even just be _near_ you again … and I would have agreed to _anything_ just to be allowed to stay. I spent _weeks_ , after the battle, not knowing if you were alive or dead, Philippa!” she cried desperately. “No one would tell me anything, until my advocate told me that you’d requested to speak at my _court martial!_ I thought if I showed them that I was not a threat … that I truly just wanted to help end the war I’d helped start, I could just _stay_. I never dreamed that you could _love_ me after everything I did—”

 

Philippa pulled her roughly into her embrace and held her tightly. “I’m sorry, my love,” she said, cupping Michael’s jaw tenderly. “I’m not angry with you—I’m angry at _myself_ for not making sure you were not being victimised by those with axes to grind. We both know that you’re a convenient scapegoat, for I am as _responsible_ as you are for what happened that day at the binary stars. _T’Kuvma_ _wanted_ a war and he was going to start one—whether in the light of _our stars_ or another—war with the Klingons was _inevitable_. But, while we may have no choice regarding your status with Starfleet, you are still a Human being … a sentient being and a _Federation citizen_ , Michael. Even though Starfleet deems you a criminal, you have _rights_! And you have a _right_ not to be forced to live like this!”

 

Michael nodded her acceptance at last. “Thank you,” she husked, her throat tight and painful.

 

Philippa went up on her toes to kiss her lips lightly. “I will not hide this,” she declared as Michael’s pain lessened and the weight crushing her chest seemed to lift. “I will not hide _you_ , Michael. We have _nothing_ to be ashamed of, so hold your head high, love. They want to split hairs? Well, I am quite _skilled_ with any number of swords and knives; I have honed them and kept them sharp, and I am _very_ much up to the task! By agreeing to conscript you onto _Discovery’s_ crew, they’ve effectively made you a civilian _outside_ my chain of command; your status is that of a _civilian science specialist_ we need to win this war, so Starfleet fraternisation regulations do not apply. And since you are technically a prisoner, as your _acknowledged_ partner—formally registered or not—by Federation law and Starfleet regulations, we are _entitled_ to conjugal visits. As long as security is kept informed of those visits, what we do— _inside_ either of our quarters—is _private_. And I will make certain that they do _not_ forget this!”

 

#


	12. Chapter 12

She stalked swiftly over to Michael’s desk, calling, “Computer, _Discovery_ override Master and Commander Khan Xiu Ying alpha-delta-zero-gamma Philippa Georgiou, enabled.”

 

“Standby for scans,” came a dispassionate voice as Philippa sat in front of Michael’s console; it wasn’t the usual computer voice avatar, but a hideous parody of Philippa’s own melodic voice, entirely devoid of her natural warmth and joy. Her face was briefly bathed in blue light. “Gene scan, retinal and voiceprint parameters confirmed, Captain Philippa Georgiou; please enter authentication codes.” Philippa tapped her authentication into the console. “What are your orders, Captain Georgiou?”

 

Philippa met Michael’s curious gaze with a positively wolfish grin. “Disco, are there any surveillance devices _inside_ the quarters of Civilian Science Specialist Michael Burnham?”

 

“Affirmative, captain; there are four active surveillance devices and four devices in standby mode inside the quarters of Civilian Science Specialist Michael Burnham.”

 

“And where are the feeds from these devices being sent, Disco?”

 

“All feeds from these devices are being sent to the secure holding buffer of the main security console in the office of Commander Ellen Landry, Chief of Security, USS _Discovery_. From there, all feeds from these devices are then transmitted every ten days over gold priority channel to Starfleet secure communications relay delta-five-one, secure holding buffer zero-zero-seven-alpha-two.”

 

“Disco, how many days ago was the last gold priority transmission of these feeds to secure relay delta-five-one?”

 

“The last gold priority transmission to secure relay delta-five-one was at 2300 hours seven days ago.”

 

Philippa barked a low, humourless laugh as she continued to hold Michael’s gaze. “It seems that I’ve been the _docile and diplomatic_ Captain Philippa Georgiou for far too long, love. Starfleet seems to have forgotten all the pieces of her _soul_ that Philippa Khan Xiu Ying has _willingly_ carved away by her own hand and _sacrificed_ for it, and the _reasons_ she chose to become the _honourable_ Captain Philippa Georgiou in the first place. The Federation has forgotten; well, I shall have to _remind_ them all.”

 

Michael’s mind raced as she tried to figure out what Philippa was referring to; nothing she’d read in her captain’s official files, when she’d first boarded _Shenzhou_ all those years ago, hinted at anything _less_ than honourable in her past.

 

 _But given the existence of the_ Disco artificial intelligence _—which, from all evidence, seems to be entirely the captain’s creation and under her command alone—the thought of a more ruthless … a more_ dangerous _Philippa Georgiou, lurking beneath the surface, is beyond_ arousing _._

 

“Disco, stop recording from the devices in question and transfer all recordings and files pertaining to those devices still in the main security console’s secure holding buffer to the captain’s secure holding buffer zero-one, console alpha-four.”

 

“Transfer of files complete, captain.”

 

“Now, Disco,” she growled, “ _terminate_ all surveillance devices _inside_ the quarters of Civilian Science Specialist Michael Burnham.”

 

“Devices terminated, captain.”

 

There were near silent _‘pops!’_ of scuttling charges and four tiny devices, one on each wall of the room, appeared as dark charred bits clinging to them. That meant that the other four were in Michael’s bedroom and bathroom. She shuddered at evidence of their reality; she’d posited their existence from a couple of things Landry had _‘let drop’_ in those first weeks, but it was so much more horrible to have it _confirmed_.

 

“Thank you, Disco; you may return to hibernation mode now, _Discovery_ override Master and Commander Khan Xiu Ying alpha-delta-zero-gamma Philippa Georgiou, disabled. Goodnight Disco.”

 

“Goodnight, Captain Georgiou.”

 

“Computer, where are Commanders Landry and Saru? Are they currently engaged?”

 

“Affirmative captain,” the computer’s normal voice replied. “Commanders Landry and Saru are currently engaged at the bridge engineering station reviewing the analysis of the data on the space-borne macro Tardigrade-like organism with Lieutenant Stamets.”

 

“Thank you; Georgiou out.” She smiled gently again at Michael as she rose and straightened her clothing. “I have to go now; it seems there are a few _issues_ that I need to discuss with my senior officers.”

 

Michael nodded, returning her smile and feeling lighter than she had in months. “I understand. Thank you.”

 

She withdrew the jewellery case from her pants pocket and pressed it into Michael’s hand. “When you’re not wearing the Soulstone, you should keep it in the case; it’s designed to keep it quiescent, so that it doesn’t always radiate emotion. Therefore, it will retain its impression longer.”

 

“How long?” Michael asked, unable to keep an anxious note from her voice.

 

Philippa smiled. “Even if you wear it every hour of every day, it shouldn’t start to wane for at least five years, according to Lyrixxhandra, and it can be recharged as many times as necessary.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Philippa wrapped her arms around Michael’s neck; Michael’s arms automatically wrapped about her waist as their lips met in a crushing kiss, tongues tangling hungrily. Philippa sighed as they broke for air and rested her head against Michael’s shoulder.

 

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” she said quietly. “And I wish I could tell you more about my service before _Shenzhou_.”

 

“As do I, but I understand enough to know that it’s classified,” Michael replied, hugging her gently again. The door chimed and they reluctantly moved apart.

 

“Come in,” Michael called; Philippa reached for her right hand and held it as her guest entered.

 

Cadet Sylvia Tilly was positively crackling with energy as she bounded in, words spilling forth in a veritable torrent—all without the apparent need to breathe.

 

“Oh Michael, I know it’s _really_ close to your curfew, but I’m so _sorry_ about the way I’ve been acting lately, and I do want to be friends with you! I don’t know why everyone is making things so _hard_ , but I figure that if I want to be captain one day, I have to make my _own_ decisions about things and not let other people tell me what to think or feel, and I’ve decided that I want to be your friend, if you’ll still have me and—uh … _hi Captain Georgiou!_ ” she squeaked to a stop, finally noticing Philippa. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt anything!”

 

Philippa chuckled. “It’s perfectly all right, Cadet Tilly, I was just leaving.”

 

Turning back to Michael, she went up on her tip-toes for another gentle kiss. Tilly’s mouth literally fell wide open, her blue eyes round with shock.

 

“Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning, love.”

 

“Goodnight Philippa, sleep well,” Michael replied. She nodded with a brilliant smile, and then reluctantly left, the door sliding shut behind her.

 

#


	13. Chapter 13

_“Oh. My. God!”_

 

Tilly’s voice got higher and higher with each word; her breathing sounded as if she were on the edge of hyperventilation.

 

 _“Eeee!!! You’re dating the captain!”_ she squealed, bouncing excitedly, and Michael couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously, you are actually dating _The_ Captain Philippa Georgiou?”

 

“Yes,” Michael replied simply.

 

“Oh my god; that is so _hot!_ ”

 

“Hot?” Michael asked, momentarily confused at the unfamiliar context of the word.

 

Tilly laughed. “Uh … yeah, like seriously, _seriously_ sexy! _Woah!_ I’m gonna need a cold shower tonight,” she said fanning herself theatrically. “You do realise the woman is an absolute _goddess_ , don’t you?”

 

Thinking of the evening she and Philippa had just shared, she was unable to stop smiling as she murmured, “Yes, she _is_ a Goddess.”

 

A quiet chime interrupted; the panel light flashed red. Curfew.

 

“You are _so_ my hero!” Tilly said, enthusiastically throwing her arms around Michael and squeezing her tightly, almost causing her to drop the jewellery case. Michael returned the hug hesitantly, before relaxing into it and offering a gentle squeeze. “And again, I’m really sorry about how I’ve been acting. I hope you can forgive me.”

 

The chime sounded again, louder and more insistent this time; the red light blinked.

 

“It’s all right,” Michael said, stepping back from the hug. “I understand the pressure and there’s nothing to forgive, Sylvia. I’m glad to be your friend, but I’m afraid that you really do have to go now.”

 

Tilly smiled brightly as she backed up towards the door, which slid open for her. “Thank you,” she said, gratitude evident. “Talk to you in the morning?”

 

“Of course; sleep well.”

 

“You too!” she said, waving and bouncing on her toes—literally _bubbling_ over with happiness as the door closed.

 

Michael allowed herself to bask for a few minutes more in all the happy, glorious memories of her evening; her fingers closed about her Soulstone pendant, relaxing into the utter joy it radiated as she thought about Philippa, their love, and how, in the course of one evening, _everything_ had changed.

 

But she still had quite a bit to do this evening on her presentation of the cloak detection parameters before seeing her love … and captain again in the morning.

 

Allowing herself a gleeful squeal to rival Tilly’s, she hurried to her bedroom, calling out, “Computer, record and transmit for security log—Starfleet Prisoner 001195-alpha-3847 is secured in quarters for the night.”

 

“Acknowledged,” replied the computer’s inhuman voice. “Starfleet Prisoner 001195-alpha-3847 Michael Burnham is secured in quarters. Status transmitted to security log.”

 

Forgotten behind her, the light panel beside the door flashed red and held steady.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew!!! I feel like I've run a marathon! Thank you to everyone who read it and put up with my persnicketiness while posting!!! LOLOL!!! And thank you all for the kudos and lovely comments - it was wonderful encouragement! I hope you all like where I took the story. 
> 
> I have a sequel planned - one of the few times I've actually managed to come up with one before I was asked - LOL!!! I guess I was inspired by Michael and Philippa - I have the first four chapters written and about 15 more outlined - will try to write it as quickly as possible, while still carrying on with my other fics!
> 
> Cheers!!!


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